Life in 221B
by The.Melanarchist
Summary: Life in 221B is restless and irregular, but John wouldn't trade it for the world. Things were just too interesting. A series of oneshots revolving around our favorite flat mates... Newest Chapter: "Experimentation and Adjustment"- John hopes against all hope that Sherlock will be sleeping when he gets back. Instead, he's met with...
1. You can imagine the Christmas dinners

**(A/N) Hello all! This fic'll be a series of oneshots updated as regularly as I can manage. I love John-Sherlock banter so prepare for arguments and conversation, though I've got several approaches I want to try. Hope you all enjoy it- there'll be more coming!**

**Disclaimer: If I owned Sherlock, season three would've been out today...T.T, sadly it's not. Draw your own conclusions.**

* * *

_**"You can imagine the Christmas dinners..."**_

* * *

"Oh, God no."

John remembered speaking the same phrase when the idea was exchanged in jest, and he cringed at his own word choice. Sherlock would no doubt pick up on that. Could you really blame him, though? Being asked to go to a Holmes family meal was the furthest thought from his mind. The consulting detective ran a hand through his dark curls- for once actually managing to look disheveled when he did so instead of annoyingly perfect.

"But John, it's entirely _dull_. Not to mention, Mycroft is insufferably mundane about it all." His voice slipped into a childish whine. John let his eyebrows creep up ever so slightly. Despite still wearing his signature coat, the buttons were undone and his appearance was ruffled at best. Sherlock never got like this unless he was bent out of shape from a case.

"I thought _I_ was 'insufferably mundane'." John retorted, coolly leaning back into his comfy arm chair and taking a sip of his tea before continuing, "As often as you remind me, I don't see how my presence would help much." Secretly, though, he was interested as to how any sort of familial event might play out at the Holmes'. His curiosity, however, was tempered with a fair dose of self-preservation. Any room housing both Sherlock _and _Mycroft (as well as any other blasted family character) may as well be an open war zone. Were he to consider going, John could imagine anything from strained silences and false smiles to flying silverware and heated arguments. The stubborn glares alone were dodgy enough to stay at 221B for the holidays.

Sherlock's pale eyes narrowed acutely, as if following John's train of thought. He must not have liked it much, because his lips turned down in a scowl.

"Please, John." John blinked once. "You're not _as_ mundane, and not nearly so infuriating." John blinked twice.

"I think that's as close to a compliment as you've ever come." He muttered, now mulling over the prospect of accompanying Sherlock to the dreaded dinner. If it meant _that_ much to him, well- John examined his flat mate more closely. Sherlock must've been under severe duress because the haughty pride often blocking his features was replaced with open pleading, just hinting at vulnerability. The expression was fleeting, though, and his composed mask slipped over seamlessly.

"I've complimented you plenty of times." He countered decisively, drawing himself up to his full height. Oddly, he was still standing in the center of the living room, just across the low coffee table strewn with newspapers. John snorted.

"No, no- complimenting does not involve insulting my intelligence. _That_ happens at least three times a day if you're in a good mood." Eyes flashing with mirth, John was still stringing him along. The quick beat of confusion scrunched the detective's brow before he conceded.

"I am fairly certain that we've gotten off topic." he redirected. "From your apparent amusement, I can only conclude that you are either digging for respects or have decided to come with me." John balked.

"I don't dig for compliments, Sherlock! And why should I?" John flushed a bit at his word choice, "Er- I mean why should I come with you? It's your family. I would be intruding." A frustrated sigh puffed from the other's lips as he dropped into the chair across from him.

"Mycroft brings a friend." Sherlock had his arms crossed, slouching deeply into the cushions.

"You're sulking." John pointed out, almost immune to this version of guilt-tripping. He only fell for it three times since- wait. "A friend, as in a colleague?" John backtracked swiftly. The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched up.

"Yes, his assistant." Just what was he implying? John fumed quietly for a moment.

"You do know I'm a qualified doctor, right?" John cradled his tea patiently, "I'm not your assistant." Sherlock's smirk turned into a triumphant smile.

"Of course not," he leaned forward a bit in his chair, out of his sulking position, "You're my blogger." Bugger it. John _knew_ what Sherlock was trying to do, but he was just too damn good at it.

"Fine." He forfeited shortly, standing from his chair to take care of his now very empty mug. Partly it was because he didn't want to see the smug grin on the other's face. Bloody sentiment. He turned on the tap to rinse out his cup, hearing Sherlock stand back up.

"Then come on. I'll get a cab." John dropped the mug. The clang rang hollowly in the metal sink, but he spun to face his flat mate anyways, faucet still running.

"_Now_, Sherlock? Christmas isn't for two days!" A blank nod confirmed it as the man knotted his scarf around his neck.

"Of course. If we met on Christmas, then we'd be obligated to exchange presents." The eccentricity of it all was delivered with the utmost sincerity and John gaped at him a moment before remembering to shut the water off. On the other hand, it was so like Sherlock that he really should have seen it coming.

"Why didn't you think to ask me earlier?" John was losing his even temper to a much more immediate sense of alarm. Sherlock was aggravatingly unperturbed.

"I didn't see the need." He deadpanned, tossing John his tweed coat and gesturing towards the door. After rushing about to get his things together, constantly being reminded that it was okay if they were late, or rather, Sherlock greatly desired to be late, John found his shoes and put them on. Sherlock opened the door with a flourish and John shouldered his coat as he left the flat, not ignoring the contented expression on Sherlock's face.

Manipulative prat.

* * *

**(A/N) Drop me a review, with comments, typo notification, criticisms etc. I'll take requests as well xD Thanks for reading!**


	2. Get a Clue

**(A/N) These are pretty easy to write...xD Thanks to my friend for the idea, hope y'all enjoy. R&R?**

**Disclaimer: Nope. Don't own. I'm not even British...T.T**

* * *

_**"Get a clue."**_

* * *

"Playing board games is beneath me, John." Sherlock turned his nose up at the veteran's suggestion. John dropped the beaten box on the coffee table nevertheless.

"_You_ said you were bored, and Lestrade doesn't have anything for us. This is my solution." John slid some pieces out of the cardboard. "Besides," he added, "it's a detective game. You like mysteries." In hind sight, that was his first mistake.

"_Clue_ can hardly be considered a mystery. The box says 8 and up." Sherlock tossed the lid back onto the table with distaste. However, he must've been bored stiff, because he sat down anyways.

"Don't get cocky, now." John thumbed through the cards, "I'm pretty good at this game." He really did think he had a chance- after all there was no real deduction involved and it was essentially elimination. Though with only two people, he imagined it would be a rather short game. This piqued the other man's interest, and he sat up straighter- the dangerously calculating look in his eyes.

"Is that so?" His gaze roamed over the deck of suspects, murder weapons, and locations as John shuffled them. The scene was set, and secret cards enveloped.

"I'll be Colonel Mustard." John announced, sliding the yellow plastic figurine to his corner. A vague hum sounded from his companion, but it was one speaking of disinterest.

"I'll be myself." He waved off John's attempt to give him a grid and pen.

"It doesn't work like that, Sherlock. You have to be one of the suspects." The consulting detective looked affronted.

"That's preposterous. I know _I _didn't do it. If I were this-" He paused to read the names on the inside of the box, "_Mr. Green_," he rolled his eyes as he continued, "then I might not know of my own guilt. The system is stupid. Perhaps if I was the murderer, then I would get a fair advantage." Despite the fuss he was making over it, John snorted.

"That's beside the point. I don't have a blasted 'Sherlock Holmes' piece that can gallivant its pompous arse about Tudor Mansion. You'll just have to pick somebody before I pick for you." Sherlock's mouth was pressed into a thin line though his body language was blatantly irritated.

"If you require a game piece, then I'll be the revolver." At John's pointed look, he added, "I'd prefer not to be a condiment or disgustingly overused color." John suppressed the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, and conceded the point. It was fitting anyways- Sherlock was more akin to a machine than a human most days. He got on with the game.

"Dr. Black is found dead after inviting everyone to a fancy party. It's our job to figure out who did it," John split the remaining cards and gave half to his flat mate. Sherlock looked amusingly lost for a moment.

"Where's the crime scene?" He said it in a rather quiet, small voice. John felt a grin blossoming.

"Well, there isn't one." He watched with amusement while Sherlock battled with the concept.

"But by simply finding the body, we should be able to discern which room he was killed in! It's remarkably difficult to drag a body throughout a populated mansion without being seen." Sherlock's scoffing had escalated into extreme frustration. John flipped through his cards and began marking them down on his grid sheet- eliminating a fair amount quickly.

"Yes, yes, I didn't make the bloody game. You can go first, if you'd like. Just roll and move to a room to make a suggestion." John absently directed him while finishing out his hidden-from-view information card. Sherlock was quiet for a moment- he had barely spared a glance at his own cards before tossing them face down onto the table and sinking back into his chair. Hands steepled in his customary thinking position, Sherlock was silent for a few seconds.

"Usually, people make a move before they start considering probabilities, you know." John tapped his fingers on the table. Sherlock didn't appear to care much, a quick glance of 'most people are stupid' and he was back to short contemplation.

"I can solve it now, right?" John felt his eyebrows rise. Surely, not even Sherlock could guess without any basis to start from.

"Uh, sure?" John held out the secret envelope for the detective to take.

"It was clearly your character- Colonel Mustard, in the library with the candlestick." He splayed the cards out for John to see after he accurately predicted each one. "This game is dull. Where's your gun?" However, John was not properly disturbed with his final question because he was examining the envelope.

"_How_ did you do that?" The detective's strikingly pale eyes regained some of their spark for a moment. Evidently the prick loved praise- however much he deserved the praise was irrelevant, because his pride was becoming unbearable.

"How did you _not_?" He retorted. As of late, he had taken to making John ask twice for any forthcoming explanation. A double boost to his ego, John supposed.

"I don't see what you see." John was almost losing interest, but Sherlock hadn't noticed.

"You _see,_ you just don't _observe_." John reluctantly piled the game pieces back into the worn box, retorting automatically.

"You've used that line a hundred times. Now if you're done flaunting yourself, you could either tell me how you knew, or I can find some other kid's game." Sherlock was properly subdued by the threat of a trip to Candy Land, and he held up the 'secret' cards.

"These are well worn, old playing cards. There's a nick on the bottom left corner of the candlestick and Col. Mustard was folded in half at some point in his miserable life. The library has an ever so slightly frayed edge at the top where the paper is about to split. I saw them while you shuffled, and those cards were the only ones I could not spot in your hand or mine." he dropped the offending cards back on the table, and John found himself cleaning them up for a second time, "Though I couldn't help but find the entire idea of being murdered with a candlestick in a library ridiculous. It would be naturally quiet, so either the murderer was waiting for him or snuck up on him, though the former is more probable. The main issue with that is the use of the candlestick- because waiting would mean the murder was very deliberate, premeditated. It is unlikely that a murderer would choose a candlestick as their primary weapon- hence my problem with this children's game. Arbitrary locations and weapons don't remotely convey any crime scene in its entirety." John felt the same sense of amazement wash over him, though evened with a fair amount of indignation.

"You counted cards." He accused, "and while I have to admit that your memory is brilliant, it's still cheating." Sherlock had the audacity to cock his head to the side.

"I can't help it, John. But do tell me, why did you choose the candlestick?"

"I didn't really murder anyone!" The doctor huffed, finally shutting the box he should've never opened.

"You came awfully close to killing Anderson the other day." The detective was half-smiling, effortlessly shifting topics. John wouldn't let it pass so quickly.

"If you don't stop bloody cheating, then I might have to kill you instead." He didn't budge, slumping into his armchair. Sherlock, however, appeared reinvigorated by the game.

"That reminds me, where's your gun?"

John shrank further in the chair as his flat mate reverted to his restless mood. Wasn't this what he was trying to avoid in the first place? Ironically, his eyes found perfect view of the shot up smiley face on the wall. God save him.

* * *

**(A/N) Mhm. Still gotta love him, John... comments welcome! Thanx for reading! Drop me a review?**


	3. Experimentation and Adjustment

**(A/N) Hello again! Thanks for all of the awesome feedback, reviews, follows, faves, etc. You guys rock!**

**Disclaimer: ****_If _****I owned Sherlock, there would be more than three episodes a season- but they're aren't, so I don't own.**

* * *

_**"Experimentation and Adjustment"**_

* * *

John turned the key in the lock, tired from his night shift at the clinic. With any luck, Sherlock would finally have crashed and he could get some well-deserved rest. His flat mate had not slept for the last three days, and even after they broke the case, he had spent the nights with his nicotine patches and violin. The past day had been filled with gruesome experiments involving various body parts. In fact, just this morning he had stunk up the entire flat with some concoction he created in an attempt to slow the natural process of Rigormortis.

Cautiously creaking the door open, John was met with a deceptive silence and the messy products of Sherlock's insomnia tossed about the living room. Very quietly, and unwilling to break what he knew to be a temporary calm, John let the door click behind him as he took off his shoes. He turned towards the kitchen and-

"John!" A rushed call sounded from around the corner, "I thought I told you to fetch me the Cesium block from my room." The detective was leaning over the kitchen's island, surrounded with fragments of a human arm, but more importantly intensely focused on a steaming pot of what John hoped was water. Wait. Cesium _and_ water?

"Sherlock, I wasn't home." He didn't know exactly when 221B had become 'home' but it had been for quite some time now. Sherlock merely scoffed and kept his eager gaze trained on his experiment.

"Is that so? Well, you should've come when I called you then." He dusted off his hands, looking a bit pleased. Before John could point out he was more than fifteen minutes away by cab, Sherlock continued, "I think I've gotten it this time- now if I just-" He dropped a piece of something into the pot and his sentence was cut off with a flash and an earsplitting bang.

John's heart nearly stopped, and he reflexively took a step back before his vision cleared. Ears still ringing and pulsing with the rush of blood, John dazedly made out a perfectly intact consulting detective no worse for wear. Instead of the proper, 'human' reaction, the man was smiling like a lunatic.

"Brilliant!" He exclaimed at the precise moment John came to his senses.

"You bloody git! What the _hell_ was that?" Sherlock wore an incredibly proud expression despite John's scolding.

"I do believe I now know the composition of flash grenades." His mild ecstasy rendered him oblivious to John's growing anger. However, in a valiant show of restraint, John shakily took a breath and counted down from ten. At long last, he spoke in the misleadingly calm voice he only pulled when he was absolutely furious.

"Sherlock Holmes, asset to Scotland Yard and the world's _only_ consulting detective died today at the tender age of 27 when he mistakenly blew his own stupid arse up in an attempt to recreate military weaponry. He is survived solely by his brother Mycroft and his flat mate John Watson- whom was nearly killed in the same act." Sherlock didn't catch the caustic edge to his voice- as he never did- and didn't even condescend to look up. Instead, he was avidly scribbling notes in his lab book.

"If you are indeed narrating my obituary, which I assume is the intent, don't waste your time." Sherlock must've finished his observational data, because he finally shut his composition notebook and shuffled a couple of papers together. "I've already written one should the need ever arise, though if I _were_ to die by my own experimentation- an improbable outcome to say the least- I don't imagine my version would be so true to cause of death." This reasoning did not appease the silently fuming doctor in the slightest.

"Appalled as I am by the fact that you've _written_ your _own_ obituary, you still didn't answer my initial question." Unfortunately, Sherlock had the gall to raise an eyebrow at him.

"What was that, exactly? I wasn't really listening." John bristled and felt his hands clench.

"What. The. Hell." He grit his teeth. "You do _not_ formulate flash grenades in the flat. You do _not _dissect human corpses _in the flat_. You do not bloody _blow yourself up_ in the goddamn flat!" Voice escalating with each, what he thought to be, reasonable request, John knew he was probably blowing this out of proportion. With that thought in mind, he toned down a bit- not for Sherlock's sake, but his own (it was very apparent that the scientist was suffering through it with the most blasé of masks). Sherlock was far too self-destructive to ever warrant a peaceful flat, and that- more than the explosions or smells- scared John the most.

"You don't seem to care if you hurt yourself, that's all." His voice was smaller, quieter, and altogether final as he made his way across the kitchen to the hallway with the intention of finding his room. Sherlock wouldn't learn from him blowing out, so what was the point of it all? As far as he knew, the detective was unchangeable, incorrigible, and not privy to his suggestions. However, he was also full of surprises. A hand tugged at his coat as he passed by, and when he turned, John found a wide-eyed, curious version of Sherlock not often seen.

"Was that it?" The voice was innocently inquisitive and John knew what Sherlock was seeing as he did his customary once-over. Bags under his eyes and a weary posture, and the hint of a scowl he could never truly hide when he was concerned. Sherlock's ever shifting irises were like ice at the moment, sharp and calculating in a way that conveyed every ounce of intelligence he had.

"You're _worried_ about me?" He sounded near incredulous, but not mocking as he usually would towards such 'sentiment'. John's short laugh was devoid of actual amusement.

"I'm constantly amazed at how clueless you can be. Of course I'm worried, Sherlock! What do you expect when you don't sleep, or eat, or take care to stand _away_ from possibly explosive substances? I can hardly keep track of you for an hour before you're off to stare death in the face again." The measuring gleam in Sherlock's eyes gradually faded to something suspiciously close to remorse- something softer and-

And vulnerable.

"People don't tend to worry about me. I-" His brow scrunched as he groped for words, "I didn't know that you were angry because you cared." His mouth quirked up at the corner, "I thought care was expressed differently."

The rare bout of honesty was ethereal, and gone as quick as it came. John checked his smile.

"I suppose _that_ is progress."

* * *

**(A/N) Thanks for reading! Drop me a review?**


End file.
